


Scully's Guilty Secret

by WildwingSuz



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildwingSuz/pseuds/WildwingSuz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully’s clearly keeping something from Mulder and he’s going to find out what it is—no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scully's Guilty Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Just a cute little shortie that I thought up one day while indulging my own unhealthy secret.
> 
> Spoilers: None, takes place in late Season 5

Scully’s Guilty Secret  
By Suzanne Feld  
Rated PG

 

Scully was up to something.

Mulder watched her out of the corner of his eye while she packed up her briefcase, as always timing it so that she snapped it shut at six o’clock on the dot. By six-oh-two she would be in the parking garage unless there was a hold up at the elevator.

For the last few hours she had been acting rather antsy and restless, which was very unusual for his buttoned-down partner. This Friday had been spent doing the paperwork for two cases they’d wrapped up earlier in the week, and normally Scully was quiet and efficient as they worked. Not today. She’d been up and down, barely spending more than a few moments either at her desk upstairs or the counter in the back of his office where she often worked at her laptop. For Scully that was the same as saying she’d stripped down to her underwear and given him a lap dance at his desk.

Don’t go there right now, he told himself as he leaned back in his chair. Save it for later.

“So, Scully, big plans this weekend?” he said, keeping one eye on the clock as she carefully put her washed-and-dried travel mug into the case. Thirty seconds.

“No, not really,” she said, straightening out several files before putting them inside the briefcase. “But I’d like to keep it that way, so don’t try to drag me out of town on a case. I have several novels that I plan to spend some quality time with, not to mention my mother since we have a rare weekend off.”

“Nah, got nothing on the burner,” he admitted. Fifteen seconds, and she was reaching for the lid. “Guess I’ll see you Monday, then.”

She glanced over, giving him her usual close-lipped but warm smile, more with her eyes than her facial expression. Snick. Six o’clock to the second. “Have a good weekend, Mulder.”

“You too, Scully,” he said to her back as she left the office. But he had no intention of waiting until Monday to see her again; she was up to something and he was going to find out what it was long before that.

 

A little later that evening he just happened to cruise through Georgetown and noted that her car was, indeed, absent from its usual parking area in front of her apartment building though there was a dim light on in her windows. Having nothing better to do he began to head for her mother’s house in Maryland, vaguely thinking he might stop and grab some brews and a pizza to soften her up to his stopping in since that was the only other place he could think of that she might be. 

However, as soon as he turned the corner he spotted her red Camry parked just a few spaces down, unmistakable by the resident sticker just slightly askew on the windshield and the government plates. That, and the scratch on the rear driver’s side quarter panel where he’d scraped her car with his while backing out of a parking spot in the Hoover building garage a few months ago.

So, she was home! Scully often left some lights on with shades down when she left, so he hadn’t thought a thing of it. The little shit, he thought with backhanded admiration. She clearly didn’t want him to know what she was up to, and he took that as a satisfactory challenge.

Mulder had no excuses, food, or case files to excuse his dropping by, but for once he didn’t care. He was barely off the elevator on her floor when the smell hit him: bacon. Strong, freshly cooked smoked pig. His mouth watered unintentionally and images assaulted his mind: a heaping plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, his mother’s exquisite bacon and spinach quiche, bacon-wrapped scallops, a fat BLT on white Wonder bread toast dripping with grease and tomato juice. 

He knew the smell couldn‘t be coming from Scully’s apartment; she rarely ate red meat and never anything fried unless she had no other choice. Every time they had to stop at a fast-food place she insisted on Subway or Arby’s, where she could get a salad or non-fried sandwich. He knew she had a secret love for a good steak or bar-be-que ribs, though she rarely indulged.

But the closer he got to the end of the hall, the stronger the smell got. There was a door across from hers but he doubted it came from there; in fact the smell had to be annoying the heck out of the Hasidic family that lived in that apartment especially since it was nearly the Sabbath. The smell of bacon had to be coming from Scully’s place, no doubt about it.

He sidled up to the door and pressed his ear against the wooden panel. Sure enough, there were faint sounds of movement from within and low strains of music which he could just make out. If Scully wasn’t home then she either had some active ghosts or a squatter who liked the same Beethoven symphonies that she did.

And, from the smell that was getting stronger every moment, he/she/it cooked bacon at seven o’clock at night.

Trying mostly unsuccessfully to hide a grin Mulder knocked, at the same time calling out, “Scully, I know you’re in there, don’t bother to ignore me.”

All noise except for the music stopped. Then, “I won’t ignore you, but I also am not going to open that door. I have the deadbolt on so your key is useless. Go away and we’ll forget this ever happened so I don’t have to kill you.”

Oh, was she furious! He had rarely heard that tone from her but when she got her Irish up, it showed. What in heaven’s name could she be hiding in there? He wondered. He was sure that it had to do with the smell of bacon, but other than that he was clueless. “I’m not leaving, Scully. You may as well just let me in and show me what you’re hiding. I have nothing better to do tonight; I cleared my dance card before I came over.”

He swore he could hear her teeth grinding behind the door. “Mulder, go away,” she hissed, her voice rising. “Can’t I have just one day free of you?!”

That stung, but he wasn’t about to give up now. “Apparently not. You know, the faster you let me in, the faster I’ll go away.”

“God dammit!” A pause, then he heard the deadbolt being drawn back and the snick of the lock releasing. The door didn’t open, but that had never stopped him.

He pushed the door open carefully, half-wondering if he might not meet the business end of Scully’s Sig Sauer. But she was nowhere in sight as he peeked around the door until his eyes made it to the kitchen.

He immediately saw the reason for the strong smell; it was bacon. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, lifting his head and sniffing the air like a hungry bear. 

Scully stood at her kitchen counter, a black cast-iron frying pan on the stove behind her that he’d never seen before. Her movements were jerky, clearly angry as she pointedly ignored him, and as he moved carefully closer he saw what she was doing.

She was making a BLT: a big, fat, bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. On what looked like wheat or rye toast; he grimaced as BLTs should only be on Wonder white in his world. “I don’t suppose you have enough for two?”

She glared at him, removing the top piece of bread from the toaster and placing it on the plate, then slathering mayonnaise on it before setting it on top of the sandwich and gently pushing it down. Then she popped two more slices of bread into the toaster. “Normally I wouldn’t, but knowing that I can’t seem to go more than a few hours without you poking your nose into my business I did make sure that I had extra. You get to make yours, though.”

She turned away from the counter and carried her plate to the table, which was set with a single placemat and a bowl of salad, with a glass of what looked to be iced tea nearby. “Really?” he said, both vaguely insulted yet pleased that she thought of him—even if it was with annoyance. He wasn’t about to pass this up, either, no matter how snarky she was.

Without hesitation he went to where she had been standing and found the makings for BLTs and salad there. Thick, peppered sliced bacon, cooked just to crispness but not rigid, was draining on a paper-towel-covered rack. Sliced tomatoes, beefsteak by the look, were on a wooden cutting board, while a head of lettuce rested in a clear plastic bowl. A large jar of real Hellmann’s Mayonnaise and Zesty Italian salad dressing were nearby. Last but not least, a loaf of what looked to be homemade bread sat in front of the cutting board, two slices already in the toaster with the handle depressed. 

“Holy God, Scully, you do it right when you treat yourself,” he said with open admiration, getting a plate and bowl down from the cabinet above the sink. Then he took one of her flowered placemats from the drawer where he knew she kept them, putting it on the table across from her. Last but never least, he got himself a glass from the pitcher of fresh-brewed sun tea in the fridge while waiting for the toast and hung his leather jacket over the back of the chair across from her.

Behind him, she huffed and didn’t reply. When the toast popped, he slathered it with mayo (though he preferred Miracle Whip) and used just enough bacon to cover the bread, leaving four slices, then layered tomato and lettuce thickly on top of it. He made himself a small salad with just lettuce and some of the sliced Beefsteak, eschewing the Tupperware containers of cut green peppers, radishes, and cucumbers sitting on the counter, and coated it thickly from the bottle of dressing. His mouth was almost literally watering as he carried bowl and plate to the table, and he had to swallow several times so that he didn’t drool on himself.

Mulder sat down across from her, carefully placing his plate on the placemat before reaching for the sandwich. For once he wasn’t watching Scully as he bit down, all of his attention on the food, or he’d have seen the slight crinkling at the corner of her eyes, all she allowed herself to show of her amusement as she watched him surreptitiously. “Oh my God,” he mumbled through a mouthful. “Best thing I’ve had in about forever.”

“Don’t you know it.” Scully nodded, reaching for her glass of iced tea. “That’s why I treat myself sometimes; we all need something really special once in a while.”

“Man cannot live on yogurt and salad alone,” Mulder agreed, still holding and eyeing his sandwich, which already had three large bites out of it. He glanced up at her and smiled. “Or, in my case, not even pizza, Chinese takeout, and cheesesteaks.”

“Keep behaving yourself and I might even let you in on dessert,” she smiled slightly over at him. “But you’ll have to eat your salad too to get it.”

He was not about to argue; if she was having BLTs for dinner, dessert could be anything from Boston Cream Pie to ice cream or, even better, chocolate chip cookies. Her mom’s Tollhouse cookie recipe was to die for. 

“You got it, G-woman,” he said, tossing the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth. As he reached for the salad he noted that she was still only halfway through her sandwich, taking delicate little bites and savoring them before swallowing. 

They finished eating in silence, but it was a comfortable silence between two people who had been friends for going on six years. He horked down the salad as fast as he could without being rude; though it was his favorite dressing even the delicious heirloom tomatoes didn’t make him want it any more than he had to. 

By the time he finished she was done as well, and wordlessly he got up and helped her clean, setting the dishes in the dishpan while she put away the leftovers. “So where’s this dessert?”

One reddish, arched brow went up, but her expression was amused as she washed her hands. “Pushy for an uninvited dinner gate-crasher.”

“Sometimes you gotta be; you’ll get nowhere without it,” he agreed, letting his mouth quirk into a small grin. “How long have you known me, Scully?”

“True, true. Okay, go look in the freezer.”

Ice cream, he thought with delight. It was sometime he loved but rarely thought to buy for himself. But, to his surprise, instead he found a long, lumpy brown log wrapped in a large plastic bag. There were no Ben & Jerry’s or Haagen-Dasz containers anywhere among the frozen entrees, either. “What the—is this it?” he said, pointing to the lump. “What the hell is that?”

Scully grinned over at him as she folded a dishtowel and set it neatly over the edge of the sink, then took down two dessert plates from the cabinet next to the sink and a bread knife, two forks and two spoons from a drawer. She left the knife on the counter but set the silverware on the table. “That, my friend, is a homemade ice cream cookie cake,” she said, coming over to the fridge and leaning past him to lift it out. He got a whiff of her clean-smelling floral shampoo and perfume, and took a moment to enjoy it. “I made it yesterday, it has to freeze overnight. My mom used to let us kids make it as a special treat, like when one of us made the honor roll or got the game-winning shot or touchdown.”

He followed her over to the counter, where she slid it out of the plastic bag and onto a cutting board already there. “So how often were you on the honor roll, Scully?” he asked. He thought he knew the answer.

“Bill and I were always on the honor roll; it was Missy and Charlie who got special treats for managing it,” she said nonchalantly. Yep, he’d guessed right. “We ended up getting to make it for attendance awards, making first chair band, things like that.”

“So what exactly is this thing?” he asked, watching as she sliced it. It didn’t look that appetizing, but you never knew. Especially when it came to Scully, who always kept him guessing.

“Tollhouse cookies layered with ice cream and covered with a mixture of pudding and Kool Whip,” she said, dishing two slices onto each plate. “You can make it with store-bought cookies but it’s not quite as good.”

That meant it must be from her mom’s cookie recipe, Mulder realized. They sat down at the table across from each other in their previous places where the placemats remained. Mulder picked up his fork and dug in; to his surprise, the odd-looking dessert was indeed even better than plain ice cream, which he had begun to doubt. Even his favorite flavor, Rocky Road. 

“You can make this with any flavor of cookies, pudding, and ice cream,” Scully continued. “Missy and Charlie’s were strawberry, Bill’s was vanilla and caramel, but mine has always been chocolate and Toll House.”

“I’m with you on that,” Mulder said around a mouthful of the melting confection. Each bite was richer and more flavorful as it got softer. “Although chocolate and caramel, or chocolate and butterscotch, might be interesting too.”

“Well, Mulder, you go one month without Skinner yelling at us about something and I might consider showing you how to make it,” she smiled over at him, showing the dimples in her cheeks. 

He grinned back. “Ain’t happening,” he declared, switching from fork to spoon as the slice on his plate was almost completely melted. Without asking, Scully cut another and slid it over to him even though she was barely halfway through hers, and he mumbled a thanks through the mouthful he presently had.

“Yeah, probably not. But what the hell, maybe one of these days we’ll make one just to get away from the stress of the job,” she remarked. “God knows I could use a little more normality some days.”

He nodded. “I’m down with that. And since you were so nice to let me crash your dinner, Scully, how about I reciprocate some time? I make a mean Campbell’s chicken noodle or tomato soup and tuna sandwich.”

“I’d like that, Mulder,” she said, smiling close-mouthed across the table at him before taking another bite. “That’s my favorite comfort food.”

“Really?” He said, staring over at her. He’d meant it as a self-depreciating joke, never in a million years expecting her to take him up on it. “Well then we’ve got a date.”

With amazing timing, the CD finished and a sudden, uneasy silence fell and both dropped their eyes. Simply saying the word ‘date’ had apparently killed the easy camaraderie between them, Mulder thought dismally. He didn’t look up at Scully while they finished the dessert, then carried their plates and silverware over to the counter. There he spotted the rest of the bacon, sitting in a Ziploc bag on the counter. “So, ah, Scully, whatcha going to do with the rest of that bacon?”

“Don’t even think about it, Mulder,” she warned in an amused voice. “One pound of bacon makes two BLTs, a quiche, and can be crumbled into a salad.” 

“You could ruin a wet dream with salad, Scully.”

She bellowed a huge belly laugh before catching herself, clapping both hands over her mouth and turning away. He grinned, knowing he’d gotten to her; it was a pretty rude comment but Scully was nothing if not down-to-earth and his even more raw remarks usually didn’t faze her. When she turned on the water and reached for the dish soap Mulder gathered up the plates on the counter and put them in the sink with the others, then stepped aside and picked up a dishtowel. Though this was the first time he’d crashed a meal at her place, they’d eaten together here many times—usually takeout or delivery while working, but he knew the cleanup routine.

When the dishes were done Mulder once again felt uncomfortable and out of place. “Well, now that I’ve decimated your groceries I guess I’ll go, Scully, and thanks again,” he said in a rush, turning and heading for the door.

“Well, Mulder, first and foremost, your coat is over here,” she said, pointing to where his black leather jacket lay draped over the back of the chair like an empty scarecrow. “Second of all, I was thinking about going to the coffeeshop on the corner for a while. They have open mike live music and beat poets on the weekends and, surprisingly enough, it’s never crowded. “

“Open mike? I bet it isn’t,” he retorted, but was smiling. “Is that an invitation to go with you? As in on a date?” he stressed the word, waiting to see how she’d react to it.

Shaking her head, Scully gave him a small, close-mouthed smile. “Why does that word have the ability to reduce us to the emotional age of middle school children?” she said with a touch of asperity. “Call it a date if you want, but the night’s going to end with us each going home to our own apartments.”

That was the first time she’d referred to the possibility of them becoming involved, Mulder realized, either directly or obliquely. The possibility was still far in the future due to their work but even so, it heartened him to know that it had crossed her mind. “Damn, you just ruined my plans for the rest of the evening,” he said, grinning to make sure that she knew it was a joke. “C’mon, I’ll even treat you to one of those floofy decaf coffee drinks you like.”

“And if you have enough caffeine to keep yourself up all night, don’t call me and complain later,” she retorted as she went to the closet and pulled out a black cloth jacket. He hurried over and held it for her; though she didn’t like him doing it when they were working she would accept it when they weren’t. 

After retrieving his coat from the chair in the dining room he met her at the front door. Shrugging it on, he took the edge of the door as she opened it, shooing her out with his hand in its usual place on her back. 

The door closed behind them, the deadbolt clicking over as Scully locked it from the outside, and the apartment was quiet but for a light, occasional drip from the kitchen faucet. In the air, the rich scent of the bacon that had helped them to spend rare non-working time together was still evident, lingering. Every time Mulder smelled bacon after this evening he’d think of these few hours, remembering how Scully had, at first, been furious at him, then resigned, and at long last, accepting of his presence and, dare he think, enjoyed their few hours out together? It was one of his favorite memories for the rest of his life.

finis


End file.
